


Uncharted Territory

by Arbryna



Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: F/F, One Shot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-02
Updated: 2013-09-02
Packaged: 2017-12-25 09:22:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,363
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/951400
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Arbryna/pseuds/Arbryna
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Morrigan comes across a familiar face on the Denerim docks.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Uncharted Territory

'Tis a curious thing, the sea. There were times that the sparsely wooded swamps of the Korcari Wilds seemed to have no end, but always there were signs—of change, if not end. The trees would thin as the path grew wider, warning of civilization close by; or else the ground would grow hard and cold, the ponds would freeze over with smooth, glassy ice, and even the hardiest of her forms—a bear, perhaps, or a thick-pelted wolf—would have to turn back and retreat to more hospitable climes. 

The sea has no such boundaries. Past the ships bobbing against the docks, past the mouth of Denerim's narrow bay, there is naught but blue, stretching infinitely toward the horizon. 'Tis an awe-inspiring sight, and a daunting one. 

Morrigan has heard stories of the sea, of course; Flemeth would have had little use for an uneducated daughter. She knows of currents and winds, of ships and the traders and pirates that sail them; she knows that no one has yet found its end. None of Flemeth's stories, however, could have captured what it feels like to actually lay eyes on it. 

Not that Morrigan is prone to sentimentality. She is not one to tear up at a particularly striking sight. She would not even be here now, bristling under the lecherous glances of sailors and wrinkling her nose at the inescapable stench of fish and salt and tar, were it not for the fool Warden's willingness to be dragged around on frivolous errands. While it certainly is a wonder that Alistair may yet have family actually willing to claim him—not that Morrigan expects any such willingness to persist after actually meeting the man—she doesn't feel any particular need to observe the no doubt unnecessarily awkward family reunion. 'Tis as good a time as any to sate her curiosity about the boundless depths that she's heard so much about. 

Flemeth told her of monsters that lurk in the great depths beyond, though she is not certain how much of it was truth. To look on this small piece of ocean now, it is not hard to conceive of such creatures. 

Had she enough time, and the luxury of choosing her own path, she might spend some time at the shore, studying the dull brown and silver fish darting about in the clear shallows below. With enough study, she might master such a form; to disappear into the depths seems a thing more freeing than taking flight in the air, perhaps because to her knowledge Flemeth could not follow her there. 

"Well look who's come 'round."

The voice is familiar, but only just; enough so that Morrigan is aware that she is the target of the words. Sparing a glance over her shoulder, she cringes inwardly. It's that bawdy pirate woman from the Pearl, the one the Warden so spectacularly failed at propositioning. Too late, Morrigan turns her eyes forward again; she does not desire idle conversation with anyone, least of all someone with whom she has so little in common. 

"Figured the docks would be too crude for your tastes," Isabela continues, either oblivious or heedless to Morrigan's disinterest.

Morrigan sighs, but does not turn. "'Tis no better or worse than any other part of this cramped, filthy city." 

Something in her tone amuses the pirate, who looses a deep, throaty chuckle. "Oh, and you're too good for filth, are you?" 

The warped planks of the pier do not creak beneath Isabela's nimble footfalls, but Morrigan can sense her approach nevertheless. The air grows warm behind her, carries the sharp scent of sweat and some kind of liquor, raises the hairs on the back of her neck. She curls her fingers into the damp, soft wood of the rail. Yet another drawback to cities—and oh, there are far too many to count—is the abundance of templars everywhere she goes. Her usual methods of deterring unwanted attention would ironically only draw still more—and more bothersome attention at that. 

"Beautiful, isn't it?" It takes a moment for Morrigan to realize that her eyes are still on the sea ahead of her, and that this is what the pirate is referring to. Isabela's voice is smoke and honey, tinged with the slightest hint of an emotion Morrigan can almost recognize. A yearning, perhaps, or a deep and encompassing appreciation. 'Tis something she thinks she has felt before, but like water it slips through her fingers before she can fully grasp it. 

'Tis a useless exercise, in any case. As is any pretense of civility. "If there is something you desire, get on with your request so that I may deny it and we may both continue about our own business."

Rather than speak or leave, though, Isabela presses closer. Morrigan clenches her jaw, grinds her teeth as generous breasts brush against her rigid bicep. "Mm," Isabela purrs into her ear, "what if I'm prepared to offer…equitable compensation?" 

Her tone leaves little room for misinterpretation, although perhaps that is the point. Morrigan bristles at the thought. She saw those men and women in the Pearl, clothed only enough to entice, waiting for the opportunity to be used by any and all with the coin to afford it. It turns her stomach even now to think of being so bound to another's pleasure.

With an indignant huff Morrigan steps to the side, restoring a comfortable distance between them. Has no one in this so-called civilized culture any concept of personal space? "Although I expect it will surprise you, given the company I am certain you are used to keeping, I am not for sale." 

Isabela's laugh is edged with condescension, but the lift of her eyebrow suggests keen interest—and all of it seems almost playful. "I wasn't offering coin."

Morrigan can hardly help the crease of her brow, the tight downturn of her lips—not that she would help it if she could. 'Tis well known to her that many people have an odd fixation on indulging their base desires, and it certainly comes as no surprise that this woman would be just the sort to enjoy such a thing, but she herself has no taste for it. 

It must show; the corners of Isabela's eyes crinkle as she smirks, and the gleam in them turns dark—almost predatory. She sways closer without moving her feet, as if Morrigan has drawn a line between them and she is pushing at its boundaries, seeing how far she can go without actually crossing it. 

"What's the matter?" Isabela asks, leaning one hip casually against the rail. She leans forward, resting artfully on an elbow to provide a generous view of her cleavage. "You're not a virgin, are you?" 

"Hardly," Morrigan scoffs, fighting the urge to step further away from the invisible line. She will not be intimidated by this woman. "I have experienced the so-called pleasures of the flesh, and found them to be vulgar, messy and not nearly _pleasurable_ enough to be deserving of the word." A lot of grunting and thrusting, mostly, followed by awkward words and a quick departure, leaving her alone to wash away the stink of sweat and seed. Admittedly she does not know how it would differ between two women, but she expects the results would be more or less the same.

Isabela chuckles, shakes her head. "You're not doing it right, then. Or maybe just not with the right people." 

"And I am to assume you would consider yourself one of the right people," Morrigan replies dubiously. 

"Maybe I am." Isabela lets her forearm rest along the rail, ignoring the line between them, agile fingers reaching out to toy with the band of cloth around Morrigan's bicep. Her eyebrow arches. "Only one way to find out." 

This is growing exceedingly unnerving, not in the least because Morrigan cannot quite decipher the reason. It feels as if she has found herself in the middle of a very complex game—one she has no experience with, and whose rules are as foreign as the lands she's been traveling of late. 

Of course, she suspects that rules of any kind would hold little weight with this woman, which leaves her at something of a loss. By all rights Morrigan should have turned and walked away by now, but the hint of mockery in Isabela's eyes would make that feel like defeat—and her pride won't allow her to be cowed so easily. She pulls her arms tighter around her ribs, straightens her spine, sets her chin defiantly. 

Isabela steps over the line. 

"Aren't you curious?" The low purr of Isabela's voice warms Morrigan's ear as soft breasts brush against her crossed arms. "It can be ever so enjoyable." 

Morrigan finds herself unable to speak, her throat inexplicably dry and tight. She blames it on nerves and disbelief. This woman, this…pirate, is practically a caricature, the very embodiment of debauchery. She stinks of tar and salt and liquor, and Morrigan is certain she does not want to know just how many people she has _enjoyed_. 

Warm skin slides against Morrigan's cheek as Isabela draws back, mouth curled in the hint of a smirk. Hot, moist breath teases at Morrigan's pursed lips, and then the smirk disappears as Isabela closes that remaining distance.

She should stop this—she certainly does not wish to allow herself to be seduced on the filthy docks of Denerim, by a common pirate no less—but something has Morrigan frozen in place. Or perhaps frozen isn't the right word; she feels a peculiar heat building in the pit of her stomach, spreading to her limbs as firm, full lips move against her own unresponsive ones. They press at the corners of her mouth, pull at her lower lip; the slick tip of a tongue swipes along the tight seam of her lips in a failed attempt to coax a reaction out of her. 

Rough, calloused fingers drag up the bare flesh of her side, following the curve of her waist and under the fabric draped over her shoulders and chest. Morrigan doesn't _mean_ to part her lips, but she can't help herself—it's surprise, that's all, a simple reaction to a physical sensation. 

What comes next, however, is anything but simple. Isabela is quick to take advantage of the opening Morrigan has left, sliding her tongue between parted lips; she tastes faintly sour, like the liquor she's no doubt had plenty of already today, but it is not altogether unpleasant. 'Tis far less awkward, in any case, than the fumbling idiots she's had the misfortune of bedding in the Wilds. It would only make sense to see just how far the differences go. 

That's the reason she holds fast to when she begins to respond. Her arms fall slowly away from her ribs, hands settling on warm, leather-clad hips. Isabela chuckles triumphantly; the sound vibrates against Morrigan's lips, gets swallowed up by their mouths as Isabela moves to deepen the kiss. 

'Tis not something she has much experience with, truth be told. The men Morrigan has encountered have never been interested in kissing as more than a means to an end, and then it was nothing more than the scratch of stubble against her mouth, the imprecise stab of a tongue as clumsy fingers fumbled with her leggings or grasped at her breasts. 

This, however…the languid slide of lips and tongue, the playful way teeth tug at her bottom lip—this is a seduction in itself, one that makes Morrigan question her prior understanding of the word. She is not some weak-kneed peasant girl, swooning into the arms of the first person to offer anything resembling skilled attention, but she has to admit that the pirate may well have a point about this being a worthwhile activity.

Isabela shifts, turns them both so that Morrigan is pressed back against the railing. That she is so easily moved speaks volumes, but Morrigan finds herself more focused on the mouth pressing kisses down the line of her jaw, the firm thigh working its way between her legs. One of Isabela's hands grows bolder, cupping Morrigan's breast through the taut undergarment that keeps them bound. Clever fingers roll her nipple between them, tug until her hips jerk against Isabela's thigh. If a sharp moan is pulled from her lips, Morrigan will never admit to it—couldn't admit to it now if she tried, not with the heat of Isabela's mouth at her throat. 

That they are in public is of no matter; Morrigan has none of the silly pruderies of so-called civilized society. Certainly she does not wish to make any more contact than necessary with the slimy, filth-stained planks beneath her feet, but if Isabela means to take her like this, up against the rail, well…the only concern Morrigan has is that it does not give beneath their weight and send them both tumbling into the sea. 

Already she can feel the need pulsing between her legs, sharper and wetter than she has ever felt with a man. She is skilled enough at taking her own pleasure, but she suspects it will feel quite different when it is Isabela's fingers rather than her own. Her belly tightens at the thought, and her own fingers dig into Isabela's hips as she opens her mouth to urge this along faster. 

"Captain!"

The call rises above the din of the docks, cutting Morrigan off before she has a chance to speak.

"Duty calls," Isabela groans into Morrigan's shoulder before pulling back. Her fingers slide down Morrigan's sides, sending little jolts of sensation across bare skin. Disappointment colors her features, eyes dark, swollen lips gathered in a playful pout. "Maybe another time."

With a wink and a blown kiss, Isabela is gone, sauntering away down the pier with all the composure Morrigan can no longer seem to find. Breathing slow and shallow, Morrigan turns back to face the rail, willing the heat from her cheeks and the quickness from her blood. 

The sea holds many wonders in its depths, but perhaps there are some that exist above water as well.


End file.
